


[untitled]

by tinyniel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (if you want it to be), Angst, Destiel - Freeform, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyniel/pseuds/tinyniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written between 7x09 and 7x10. It's Dean watching over Bobby at the hospital, and calling on an old friend for help. </p>
<p>It never got a name at the time, and I still can't think of a good one now. </p>
<p>It's only Destiel if you want it to be ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	[untitled]

_Beep. Beep. Beep._  
  
It's a steady, rhythmic sound, constant and screaming loud in the silence of the room. It's been so long now that it's the only sound he hears. The padded footsteps of the people in the hall, their voices as they walk by, the occasional laugh or page over the intercom. They're all being drowned out by that godawful, all-consuming sound.  
  
 _Beep. Beep. Beep._  
  
It feels like he's been here forever. Every minute feels like an hour, every hour like a week. His body's in some kind of trance. Nothing matters, nothing hurts. He's slept in this chair the past two nights, and his neck should be killing him. But it's not. His legs are probably stiff, but it doesn't matter. He can't leave. Not yet. He needs to know it's going to be OK first.  
  
 _Beep. Beep. Beep._  
  
He can't remember the last time he ate. His brother's brought him food, and maybe he ate it. He doesn't know. Doesn't care. The only thing he cares about is the man in the bed in front of him. All that matters is that he opens his eyes. And preferably calls him an 'idjit'. Just so he knows that it's all going to be all right.  
  
 _Beep. Beep. Beep._  
  
\- Dean.  
He doesn't answer.  
– Dean, you need to get out of this room.  
He doesn't look up. He knows the look Sam is giving him, he can feel it burning into his skin. And it's not a gaze he wants to meet.  
– Dean, I'll be right here. If anything happens, I'll call you straight away.  
– No.  
– Dean, you've been in that chair for two days straight.  
– And I'll stay in it for 22 days straight if that's what it takes.  
– Dean.  
Sam's voice changes. Less sympathy, more determination, and Dean can tell he's not going to let this go.  
  
– Fine.  
  
He gets up, a little too quickly, and has to disguise how dizzy it makes him. Guess he didn't eat after all then.  
  
His legs complain, threatening for a moment to give in, but he doesn't let them. He throws a glance at the bed.  
– You die on me while I'm gone, Bobby, and I'll-  
  
He trails off. None of those insults seem funny, or tough, anymore.  
  
He pushes through the door, hearing Sam call something after him. He ignores it, as the door swings shut behind him.  
  
 _Beep. Beep. Be–_

* *

  
It's funny how life outside the room just goes on like nothing has happened. Like the man he practically considers his father isn't fighting for his life in there.  
  
Out here, people are smiling. Talking, laughing. Out here, there's sound. Too much of it, it's making his head hurt. He pushes through a door, into a hallway. He's probably not supposed to be here, but right now he couldn't care less.  
  
He walks, aimlessly, not knowing what he's doing, where he's going. He just knows that it feels good to move, and now that he's up and out, he doesn't know if he can face going back to that room. Face loosing another father, maybe more of a father this time.  
  
But then he's lost everything else. Maybe it's time to get used to the fact that he's just not meant to keep anything, anyone he loves.  
  
He stops at a open door, the sign next to it swimming into focus in his tired eyes. "Chapel". He peers inside. Like with almost everything else, his memories from churches are pretty much all bad.  
  
It's empty. And dark, lit only by a few candles along the isles. There's the usual statue at the altar, and one of those racks where people light candles and say prayers. A few the candles are lit, but there doesn't seem to be anyone there.  
  
He makes up his mind. Steps inside carefully, for a moment unsure if he's really welcome. He doubts the priest would mind, but he's not quite sure his superiors feel the same way.  
  
It's cool inside, and quiet. Blissfully so. He walks up the aisle, stopping by the third bench. He looks around, slides into the seat, feeling out of place, like he's trespassing. The bench is hard, uncomfortable, just like it ought to be.  
  
He leans back, staring up at the statue. At the images around the alter, depicting angels and prophets in bright colours and with blonde hair and kind faces, delivering messages from God.  
  
No bald heads, or swords, or curled up worshippers bleeding out.  
  
– Liars, Dean mutters.  
  
– Can I help you?  
  
He looks up, into a pair of kind, brown eyes hidden behind thick glasses. The priest smiles down at him.  
– Nah. Thanks padre, but I just ... I just need a word with an old friend.  
The priest puts a hand on his shoulder.  
– Of course. I'll give you some privacy. I'm right there, if you need me.  
  
He points to a door on the left wall, and disappears towards it.  
  
And then Dean is alone again, just him and the deceitful pictures of angels. Plenty of dresses and robes, but not a single trench coat.  
  
He looks up, staring at the white ceiling. It's cracked, paint peeling.  
  
 _Cas, where are you?_  
  
The words escape his lips before he fully knows it's happening, and for a moment he waits, in suspense, expecting God knows what to happen.  
  
Nothing does, of course. It never does these days, and he should know by now. It's not the first time he's tried.  
  
 _Dammit, man, I need you._  
  
He stares up at the ceiling, focussing on the crack, like it's some sort of portal and if he just tries hard enough, his message will get through.  
  
 _You picked a piss-poor time to bail on me, you know that?_  
  
Still no answer. But he persists, fuelled by all the anger and the hurt he's been bottling up these past months. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Or maybe he's just, finally, had enough.  
  
 _How am I supposed to fight this all on my own, huh? You were my go-to-guy when it came to shit like this. Demons, ghost, all that crap I can handle. But this is too big. Way too big for me to handle on my own._  
  
 _Cas, can you hear me?_  
  
But everything's quiet.  
  
 _Cas, man, I need you. Bobby's upstairs, he's hooked up to something out of Star Trek and there is nothing, nothing I can do!_  
  
His hands grip the back of the bench in front of him, knuckles whitening in anger.  
  
 _Do you know how powerless I feel? How completely and utterly useless? How much it hurts to see someone I- It's Bobby, man! He's almost all the family I have left. Do I really have to watch him die too? Cos I don't know how many more I can take._  
  
He breaks his staring-match with the ceiling, head dropping into his hands.  
  
 _I know you're out there, Cas. You have to be. I have watched you rebel, I've watched you smite angels and demons and frickin' explode! And you always come back. Where are you?_  
  
He can feel the tears burning now, and makes him even more angry because Dean Winchester doesn't cry, dammit.  
  
Except now he does.  
  
The tears stream down his face, and he's too tired to fight them. His voice falters, resolves itself to a whisper.  
  
 _Cas, please. I need you back, man. If for nothing else, then at least to fix Bobby. I'll do everything else on my own, I'll go down swinging, but please just ... just fix Bobby. I won't ask anything else of you, ever again. Just fix him, dammit._  
  
The chapel is still silent. Almost eerily so now. Dean wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, blinks furiously. Stares back up at the ceiling. He doesn't know why. Wherever Cas is, he doubts it's in Heaven.  
  
 _I forgive you, you know. I forgave you the moment you opened your eyes again. I know we've got some trust-issues to work out, and I might get the urge to punch you when I see you, but ... I forgive you. I see what you were trying to do, even if it was the dumbest frickin' thing you've ever done Cas, and there's been some competition. But ... I guess I understand now._  
  
 _I guess I'm to blame too here. I taught you that you could think for yourself. I never taught you how dangerous that was. But dammit Cas, how was I to know you were going to take a leaf out of my book? It's the last damn book anyone should be taking anything out of._  
  
He remembers, for a brief moment, Castiel standing up to Lucifer, and he can't help but smile, despite knowing the consequence that had.  
  
 _Well, maybe I did teach you a useful thing or two._  
  
He blinks back the last few tears.  
  
 _Cas. Castiel. Please. Just do this one last thing for me. Just one thing, and I'll get out of your hair. You've got more important matters than me now anyway._  
  
 _But please, just fix Bobby._  
  
He finds his voice again, the last pleading loud and clear.  
  
 _Please Castiel. Just fix him._

* *

  
\- Dean! Dean!  
  
Sam's voice shakes him awake, and he blinks dumbly up at his brother.  
– Sam? What, where am I?  
  
He looks around the chapel, the flames of the candles swimming in front of his eyes. And then he remembers. He must have fallen asleep.  
  
– Dean, you have to come quick! It's Bobby!  
  
Dean's on his feet, instantly awake, white as a sheet, but Sam just claps a hand on his shoulder.  
  
– He's awake, Dean.

* *

  
They both run back to the room, Dean holding back the flushing feeling of relief that's desperately trying to take over his body. He has to see him first. Has to be sure.  
  
He nearly crashes through the door, earning himself a disapproving look from the surly nurse by the bed, but he doesn't care. He's by the bed in second, staring down at the Bobby.  
– Bobby.  
  
It's just a breath, but Bobby must have heard somehow because he looks up, catches Dean's eye. That's when Dean's knees buckle.  
  
He lands, not very gracefully, in the chair he was sitting in an hour earlier.  
  
– Bobby, don't you ever frickin' scare me like that again, do you hear me?  
  
Bobby's lips move, but the sounds that comes out is nothing but a breath of air, and barely that.  
  
– Don't try to speak.  
  
It's the nurse, shushing him, and then Dean has to bite back a smile because the look Bobby gives her spells out all the words he would say if he he had his voice right now. She seems to notice too, because she decides to take this moment to "give you boys some time alone."  
  
He can hear Sam coming closer, taking the other side of the bed, putting a hand on Bobby's arm. Dean looks up, sees tears in his brother's eyes.  
  
Dean grabs Bobby's hand suddenly, squeezing it, needing to feel that he really is alive. He's still here.  
  
Bobby tries to croak out another word, and Sam leans in closer to catch it. Then he just laughs.  
  
– What did he say, Dean demands.  
– He said 'idjits.'

* *

  
Bobby's resting. Sam's gone out to find him some new clothes. And Dean's wandering again, steps retracing his path from earlier. This time, he steps into the chapel without hesitation. Walks right into the middle of the room, stares back up at the crack in the ceiling.  
  
Smiles, ever so slightly. Whispers.  
  
 _Thanks, Cas._

\- end -

**Author's Note:**

> Also [here](http://deancastiel.livejournal.com/3580024.html).


End file.
